Of Dreams and Freedom
by Kailey Hamilton
Summary: Dean Thomas is a failed artist who sells his work in the city's promenade market. From his stand, he can see the beach where a young fire performer comes every afternoon to practice. Muggle!AU. Dean/Seamus SLASH. Oneshot for Milly.


_Notes: __This was written for __**Milly (Mein Liebling) **__for the Gift-Giving Extravaganza. It's also a Muggle!AU in which they're not in the UK, but I'm not going to tell you where this is set._

_**Milly:**__ I've had this plot bunny in my mind for weeks now, and just now it decided it was time. I think this is my very first AU. I had fun writing this tbh, but I feel like it sucks. I sincerely hope you disagree with me and manage to enjoy this!_

_Thanks to **Jess (autumn midnights)** for beta-reading this!_

* * *

**Of Dreams and Freedom**

Thin brushes fly against paper, and a distant figure is immortalized by your talented hand.

You think that the desert climate mixed with the proximity of the sea is what helped the promenade market proliferate. The city is blessed with three hundred and sixty sunny days a year, warm waters, and a wave of tourists you'd come to be thankful for. Nonetheless, it's hard for you to grasp that you're part of that massive attraction. There, you're not Dean Thomas, art school dropout, whose dream once was being featured in the galleries of New York and Berlin. You, Dean, are the drawings you have on sale and the portraits you're paid to produce.

There's a little sense of pride, of course, in knowing that at least your art is out there. You even snatched a big-enough corner of the market facing the sea, which has come to be the main source of your inspiration. It's not only sea, but also sand and mountains and sometimes, just sometimes, you think God got it wrong and that paradise should've been in the middle of the desert, just there, just then.

But none of it matters, and certainly not to the sea of faces that examine your art day by day. Just as they're a sea of faces to you, the whole market is a blur to them, a blur they don't care to dissect and examine and worry about. Why should they? It's not their problem that you can barely afford rent, or that the market as a whole is an illegal endeavor.

Except for the fire-spinner, that is.

You don't know how he got there or why. He's certainly good enough to ask money for his performance and yet, he doesn't. People approach him endlessly to ask the questions they'd never ask you. You don't know why he has decided to show up every afternoon, and always where you can see him clearly. You only know you're glad he's now part of the sand and the sea, that backdrop and scenery which is often your choice of subject.

You can still draw and paint whatever you see fit, and you don't think there's anything wrong with painting him either. So you do, and you don't think much of it. You paint him, and you only feel the glorious freedom of fiery batons spinning in the air against the twilight sky.

* * *

It's a day like many others, except that today, something compelled the fire-spinner to approach you and your art.

You recognize him because of the attire and general build. Not once have you seen his face up close, but now that you just did, you deeply regret not being able to freeze that moment in time and paint your heart out, because there's something so careless in his good looks, something you've never seen in your life. It awakens something inside of you, Dean. And you can't keep his eyes off of him as he can't keep his eyes off of your art.

He picks up a particular piece, examining it minutely. You only have enough time to realize it's the same one you've just completed – it's him in watercolors; it's him, faceless and soulless in a mesh of fire and sky.

You hold your breath. You wait for the inevitable.

"That's-" Words don't leave him for a while. He doesn't look confused, just awestruck. "-me," he finishes. "I can't possibly look this good?"

He looks at you questioningly and you resist the urge to giggle like a schoolgirl. You do, however, smile coyly at his mostly positive reaction. You've always thought that there are two kinds of subjects – the ones who feel uncomfortable by being used as such, and the ones who take it as flattery. You're glad that the fire-spinner belongs to the latter group.

(He makes a fantastic subject, after all.)

"Orange against blue, mate," you say, trying to appear nonchalant. "It just works."

"No, I get it." His eyes are now fixed on yours, and you try your best not to look away. "How much for it?"

"Just take it." You're not about to sell a man a portrait he didn't commission from you. It's obvious he doesn't want it for bragging rights, as he's obviously drawn to it by a force stronger than ego. You want to know just why, then, and you hope it's linked to the same kind of inspiration that he gave you.

"I couldn't possibly do that," he firmly says. "How much for it?"

"Either take it or leave it." You shrug.

(You don't really feel like shrugging, though.)

"I'm not stealing from you."

"You perform for free every afternoon," you point out. "This isn't any different."

"I'm just practicing, mate. Not performing."

"You'd be surprised, then, at how good you are."

You can tell something changes at this very moment, but you can't put your finger on what. His hand, steady when holding his baton, is now shaking when holding your painting. Your heart, normally steady even under scrutiny, is now beating wildly at the way his eyes light up.

(If only they could stay that way forever!)

"You won't regret this," he says. And you think you almost don't care what he means, because he takes your painting. He walks away without as much as a _goodbye_ or a_ thanks_, but his joyous smile and the haphazard grace in which he carries himself is more than enough for you.

You used to dream of the galleries of London and Beijing. But now there's another dream; now his face is everywhere, Dean. Everywhere. And you must paint it, draw it, sketch it; _anything_ to translate to paper the glow in his eyes that just won't leave you alone.

* * *

"You were right."

You barely even notice_ him_ today, what with the out-of-town group of schoolchildren that keeps the market busy that afternoon. It happens often, this being a historically important city and the market being a free-access, time-consuming attraction. It means you must be prepared to draw caricatures of silly girls, cutesy couples, curious boys, and sometimes, a very bored teacher. It means receiving the unabashed criticism of teenagers, which fuels your motivation.

It's all in good fun, really, and good income, and you're tired but happy by the day's end. So the smile with which you greet the fire-spinner is genuine in more ways than one.

"Right about what?" you ask.

"I was gratefully surprised." He raises his left fist, in which he clutches a small bag of sorts, and shakes it. The familiar clinking of loose change reaches your ears. "Let me buy you a beer. It's the least I can do."

(Yes. Please.)

You look around meaningfully, for your art is still carefully laid down for sale and it takes more than a few minutes to be done for the day.

"I'll wait." He reads your mind, and for the first time in months, you feel that life is_ good._

And for the first time in months, you learn.

You learn that getting two six-packs and sitting by the sea is the best way of spending a night out. And that way, you also learn that one beer can quickly become two, three, and more.

You learn that his name is Seamus Finnigan, he's twenty three, and he's just finished a short military career as an Armor Officer. You learn that he learned to perform with fire three years ago and that he thinks of it as a hobby exclusively.

(You also learn what a poi is, but that knowledge seems irrelevant in the face of many others.)

You learn he also holds a job in the mornings, and plans to travel before he tries to put his life together. You find yourself wishing you could do the same.

You learn that he still lives with his parents and, like you, he has an endless network of siblings and cousins that, in his words, _aren't worth talking about._ He doesn't say this with lack of love or a hint of disdain, but who could blame a middle child that wants to talk about himself, and only himself?

Not you, Dean. You find yourself answering all those questions you always wished to be asked.

"Art school is useless," you say, much to your own surprise. But it's a thought you can't fight anymore. "It only takes a year or so to realize that such a degree is worthless, unless you're the best of the best. I'm good, Seamus. But I'm not the best."

There's no fake modesty in your words, and you're glad he's not quick to accuse you of such.

"That's why you dropped out, then?" he asks.

"It contributed a bit. I knew I had no way of paying off loans as an artist. But no, I was cut off. My family disowned me after I came out as gay."

"People still do that?" He rolls his eyes at your family's zealotry, which makes you like him more than you do already.

"To use your words, they just aren't worth talking about." You hope to finish the conversation on that note, for there's bitterness in your tone, but he doesn't take the hint.

"But look at you," he says. "You're independent and you do what you love. Is there anything else you can ask for?"

"Support, I guess." You shrug and make a point of avoiding his gaze after such a personal confession.

"This might not mean much, mate. But I support you."

"Thanks." He guesses that you don't take his words seriously, because his following speech is impassioned.

"I mean it. That painting…" He pauses, apparently searching for words. "Call me silly, but it does remind me of why I started doing this in the first place. It looks good, it feels good, and it gets my mind off of things." A smile crept up on his face. "Makes me feel free."

Freedom is exactly what you were thinking of when you painted him, so his confession astounds you. You've never met anyone as open with their feelings. It's a stigma, and especially when it concerns men, to be so candid. But as an artist you see nothing wrong with it. You really appreciate it. You _love_ it.

You feel a connection deeper than anything you'd felt ever before. And you have no answers, Dean, but Seamus doesn't push you for them. You're glad, because this silence is more telling that words and it might seem crazy, crazier than anything – but deep down, you feel as if you could stay like this forever.

"To freedom," you say finally, raising the can of beer you're drinking from.

"To freedom," he responds enthusiastically, mimicking your movements.

Nothing any of you could say afterward could possibly hold any meaning, so you enjoy the rest of the evening in silence.

You know that this isn't Los Angeles or Paris, as you've long stopped dreaming. Maybe your reality is harsher, more humble, and maybe it's a non-stop struggle.

But as you and Seamus drink silently, you can't contain the thought that the promenade market is just fine.

* * *

You wake up the following morning to find out that his phone number has been added to your contacts. You have to resist the urge to call him, to even text him, but he plagues your every thought and being in the market without him, from dawn until dusk, feels like torture.

It feels like the longest wait of your life.

_I can't stop thinking about you_, you want to say. But it's a slow, dull day and you content yourself with using pencil and paper to express those thoughts. So you sketch his face as his eyes glowed. You sketch him as he walked away from you. You sketch him as he toasted for freedom.

You can't actually wait until dusk, though, and you use the justification of a very useless day to close early – coincidentally as he makes appearance in the beach to practice.

And you watch.

You can tell he feels the weight of your eyes on him, because he often turns to meet your gaze with a smile. Maybe it's your presence that makes him feel that it's going to be a potentially useless day for him as well, because the sun hasn't even set when he puts out his poi and starts gathering his things.

And Dean, you know there's no time to lose - you've never been this forward, but you've never been this sure of anything in your entire life. So you approach him, all your blocks and pencils forgotten.

"Dean," he greets you casually. He expects you. You can tell he's trying to be cool, but the smile that escapes his lips is far from it.

"Seamus, I-I don't need your number. I mean," You correct yourself quickly, so he won't get the wrong idea. "I mean, I see you every day. I know where to find you. What for?"

He smiles a half-smile that makes you realize that you can't possibly be wrong, that maybe he feels it too. Maybe it's more than just the vague notion of freedom that draws the two of you together.

Maybe he wants you to tell him that you can't stop thinking about him.

"Nothing seems like enough," he says as cryptically as he said, just two days ago, that you weren't going to regret giving the painting to him.

(Of course you don't regret it, Dean. You regret nothing.)

"Seamus…" You say his name without knowing what to say afterward. But it doesn't matter, because as you correctly guessed, _he feels it too_. And to prove it, his lips crash on yours with so much force that you can't even react at first.

But your hands eventually find their way to the back of his head, to his chest, to caress his face, and nothing else matters. It doesn't matter that two days ago, Seamus was a stranger – he was the fire-spinner, a faceless figure that simply intrigued you. It doesn't matter that you're sharing such a private moment in a public space – you're used to baring your heart via your art in front of dozens of strangers. It doesn't matter just what this connection means or where it's headed to, when kissing Seamus Finnigan under the setting sun feels better than a dream come true.

It doesn't matter that you once dreamt of Tokyo and Rome, Dean, because sometimes reality is much more fulfilling than distant dreams.


End file.
